A Looming Fear
by The Asylum of the Devitory
Summary: This is in no way a cheapshot at the WWE. Nope. Nahuh. No way. Nada. Nix. Nay. Nein. Nosireebob.


It was yet another main event in yet another promotion. A rookie champ had quit, dropping the title to another behind him in the ranks. Whereas the former rookie was a mountain of a man with an honest-to-God ability to wrestle, the latter was like a barnacle to a rusted ship, clamped to the sides of the hull like a cancer to a vital organ: largely immobile and proven unhealthy. The lights went out and the stage lit up, and a simple, stereotypically ethnic tune blared throughout the stadium shortly thereafter. Out from behind the curtain and onto center stage strolled a short foreigner, not even six feet tall and well under 230 Lbs, doing little more than breathing as he flexed his shoulders down to the ring. Wether it was the long and torturous match before, featuring a 400-Lb monster waddling around the ring against a clumsy, under-enthusastic giant, pawning off the 20-minute slapfight as a wrestling match, or maybe if it was just because the number one favorite of the promotion was now dancing around backstage in a yellow ballerina tutu as he had been for the last year, the half-filled stadium erupted with a massive cheer for our short and stubby challenger, as he briskly made his way to the ring, slingshotted himself into the ring with an intensity unlike no man before him, and held one fist up above his head, again recieving a gigantic roar of approval from the fans around him. Those in the front rows knew him well, and were even so obsessed with his career that they had followed his endeavors all over the world. They knew his armdrags, suplexes, takedowns, submissions, everything, and they were hard pressed to see anyone execute them quite as quick and intense as he could. The foreigner stepped atop the middle ropes and again raised his fist without a word at all, and the stadium almost blew the roof off with the resounding cheer.

Then, the music changed. Heavy American-produced grunge rock filled the arena, and almost as if someone had slipped ziplock bags over all the fan's heads, the cheers were killed. Out from behind the curtain and onto center stage strolled a tall, stocky man. His flabby skin hung over his tights, jiggling much like that of Santa Claus' on Christmas Eve as he hopped on one foot, pumped his fists to the crowd, yelling and cheering himself on to the response of a phantom's flatulence. He entered the ring, and the stadium was still silent as death. He motioned to raise the roof. The roof stayed firm on the stadium walls. Tossing aside the big shiny gold belt he had worn on his waist, the bell rung, and the match was on.

The short foreigner was immediatley on the offensive, pulling out the armdrags and suplexes like sticks of dynamite. The canvas shook and thumped with every intense slam, driving the crowd into a frenzy. Up to the top rope he went, leaping off with such height that he may just as well be a few feet away from the heavens. He was twisting and corkscrewing his body around in a dizzying, flabberghasting display of athleticism, landing square on his prone hulking American opponent. The stadium went wild as the ref dove down, one, two, no! The larger man had powered of the pin and was immediatley back on his feet.

A slow strike that more closely resembled a light slap than a punch brushed across the smaller man's cheek, and with a sense of awkwardness, the foreigner threw himself back into the turnbuckles, trying to convince the paying crowd that the tiny tap was a brutal jab. They were not buying into it, responding not with cooes of sympathy for the smaller man, but complete and total apathy. The American tapped him again with a light brush to the chin, with the smaller man bucking up in the corner and dropping to the ground as if someone has shot him between the eyes with a shotgun at point-blank range. Again, dead silence. The larger American then hoisted the smaller foreigner up onto his shoulders, flipped him over, and dropped him to the ground.

The crowd winced. Not because they were finally convinced that the larger man's offense was real enough, but because the lazy throw combined with the larger man's already winded body robbed him of his power, only managing to flip the smaller man just ninety degrees downward, spiking him visibly on his head. The seconds melted into minutes, and the smaller man lay still in a crumpled heap. Usually, after taking something like a standard piledriver, the smaller man would bounce on a handstand, and flop around like a fish flung out of water. Now he lay inanimate, save for the steady rise and fall of his back. A stretcher and a crew rushed to the ring, carrying him out with caution. Faint sobbing was heard from the crowd, and it continued until the larger American reclaimed his gold belt. Garbage rained into the ring with as much force and velocity of the echoing boos.

It had been a week since the accident. The news of the crippling injuries that the foreigner sustained hit the hardcore fans like a mallet to the stomach with a rail spike wedged into the bellybutton. He would live and still walk, but the injuries would prevent him from ever stepping into a ring for competition ever again. The larger American? Still on the top of the card, having said nothing but an "oops." 


End file.
